


i’m in the second hand smoke

by hexed_vexed



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canonical Character Death, Everything Hurts, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mind the Tags, Partner Betrayal, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:57:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexed_vexed/pseuds/hexed_vexed
Summary: His phone was so close, he could have itso easily, right there in his palm, if he just reached out to it on the night stand. All he had to do was scroll through his contacts, findhim, and hit call. That was it, but that simple task made Peter want to crawl deeper into his covers and die.(Please read the notes at the beginning and mind the warnings!)





	i’m in the second hand smoke

**Author's Note:**

> _ONE_ : hey guys, this is dark as fuck, or writing this i felt like it was. it talks about suicide, suicidal thoughts, thousands of references to death, a lot of blood. i’m turning you away if you think any of this might upset you.
> 
>  _TWO_ : i refuse to right wade/peter with mcu peter because he’s underage. so, all of these will be comic based where peter is in his twenties.
> 
>  _THREE_ : it’s hard to understand without the comic, but wade killed peter because he thought peter was evil. here he realized peter was spiderman after bringing him back.

Wade was far from smart, borderline crazy is what he was, and extremely idiotic. _Of_ _course_ Peter would have been upset after someone he confided in - _someone_ _he_ _genuinely_ _trusted_ _and_ _believed_ _in_ \- murdered him. Pulled the trigger, caused the shot, made him suffer. Wade might’ve not been able to feel the sting of the searing metal bullet when it pierced the skin of Peter’s forehead, but he knew the experience. But not the fear. He didn’t know the feeling of utter disgust that flooded Peter’s senses everytime he thought of Deadpool - the overwhelming weight of the betrayal that pressed down on his heart. Wade didn’t know... except he really, _really_ did. More than anything in the world, he wanted Peter to know that he understood his anguish. Wade _wanted_ to tell Peter that he had already turned the gun on himself when he was alone, in his apartment, with no one. Only a fraction of the guilt melted away and mixed with the blood that spilled from a hole just above Deadpool’s ear. He _wanted_ to tell Peter that he resented himself for being the one inflicting the pain he despised so much, and _wanted_ to make it up to him. But want is a painful, impossible thing.

 

“You  _killed me,_ Wade,” Peter whispered sharply, his voice was low. He pulled his mask off in a white-knuckle grip. 

”I know, Peter, but-“

” _Stop._ I’m Spider-man, not Peter Parker. Not to you,” The hero grimaced, facing his killer with an icy stare. There was still a patch of dried red knotted in his chestnut hair. 

 

The worst part - the worst part of the entire process of killing Peter Parker - was not the relief that washed over the man’s face when he saw Deadpool at his door, not how the relief quickly flickered into shock when the gun fired, but the pride that flooded Wade’s system when Peter Parker’s lifeless body dropped to the ground. Pride. It’s what the mercenary felt pumping through every fiber of his being when the liquid, crimson blood escaped through the hole in the businessman’s head. The blood that trickled weakly from his nose and ears, the red staining his wooden floors and expensive furniture. It splattered across the ceiling, the wall, and onto Deadpool’s mask. Liquid pride. 

 

Peter’s lip quivered with rage and underlying grief. He bit harshly at it and turned his gaze away from the mercenary. 

“Listen, I’m  _sorry-_ “

”That’s all you have to say? After everything - _everything_ \- that happened to me because of you _,_ all you have to say to me is ‘ _sorry_ ’?”

”I thought he, _you_ , were evil.”

”Fuck off, Deadpool.”

He did. And Peter was suddenly crushed by the overwhelming silence, and squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. 

 

Peter’s heart itched to pour every ounce of ache it was feeling out, out for Wade to see. He wanted the other to feel guilt, and - against every instinct in his body - he wanted to bring Deadpool pain. The kind that didn’t regenerate in a day or two, the kind that left someone broken into thousands of unfixable pieces.  

The friendly-neighborhood Spider-man didn’t sleep that night. He clung to his sheets greedily, trying to feel anything, not wanting to close his eyes. His nights were plagued with memories of Mysterio’s torture. Peter would have prefered to stay in limbo, but no - that jackass had to pull him into an illusion he sure as hell didn’t need. He saw Uncle Ben in every dark corner, the wound in his head pale and rotten from the accident. Peter saw Gwen, too. She tilted her head to the side like she always did when she laughed - her gorgeous, full-belly laughs - and her silken hair fell across her back gently. Just as he remembered her, the only difference being her want to murder Peter over and over and _over_. 

His phone was so close, he could have it _so_ _easily,_ right there in his palm _,_ if he just reached out to it on the night stand. All he had to do was scroll through his contacts, find _him_ , and hit call. That was it, but that simple task made Peter want to crawl deeper into his covers and die. Die again, by the hands of some burglar or a drunk driver or something, anything that would be considered normal. It was a sickening thought, he knew this, but everything just  _hurt_. He wanted the media to tell the world, he wanted the world to say, “ _Dead?_   _What_   _a_ _shame,”_ and to move on to the next story. Peter wasn’t the CEO of Parker Industries that was murdered in cold blood by a hitman for reasons unknown. He didn’t want the news story to stick. Peter just wanted to be let go.

How does a CEO call out sick without raising suspicion? That’s right, he - or she, Peter is _not_ assuming - doesn’t. Anna Maria texted him, saying reception told her that Peter wouldn’t be in and she had the right to be worried. He told her that he was okay, would be okay, and just needed a break. Anna Maria said she understood - because she _always_ _did_ \- and dropped it, told him to get some sleep. But Peter wasn’t planning on getting any rest. No, he was sure that the only cure for his inability to function was to jump. To freefall off of a building, the brisk morning air cleansing his soul as he fell. In the last moment, the final second as he became acutely aware of the pavement beneath him, he’d shoot out a web and swing. 

And that’s what he did, for hours until the sun peaked in the sky and his entire body was screaming of exhaustion. Peter gave himself a moment - a moment to stop running away and slow down - on a rooftop of a convenience store. He landed gracelessly onto the roof’s edge and fell foward onto the concrete top. Peter groaned as his reflexes failed him and he hit the roof with a _thud_. He rolled onto his back slowly, trying to enjoy the feeling of basking in the sunlight without slipping into sleep. The convenience store’s door had a bell attached which chimed each time a customer entered. Chiming and chattering soothed Peter’s quickening thoughts and he breathed in the air around him. Deep inhale, thin exhale. 

After what was a handful of uneventful hours, Peter pushed himself upwards and cracked his spine. He noticed the sun beginning to creep behind the skyscrapers, giving them a deep orange glimmer. The air felt thicker, more tense than the carefree morning air had been. Peter reluctantly pushed himself to his feet and stood, fists to his sides, feeling a stray tear fall across his cheek under his mask. The last time he had cried was at Aunt May’s funeral. Natural causes, no villains to pursue this time, only himself to face. To look in the mirror and say, “You are alone now.”

Peter caught a flash of red in the sun’s path, bathing the city in its evening colors. A closed off corner of his mind pushed memories into his focus. Sitting on rooftops eating New York’s finest and greasiest street food with a man in a red and black suit smiling down at him. Those two colors - red and black - crackled violently across his thoughts and Peter felt his final resolve crumble. 

He could taste the salt in his mouth from the tears now streaming down his face. He heard a sob escape his mouth, raspy and choked. The memory of a toothy and michevious grin from Wade Wilson cut off all of Peter’s thoughts as he stumbled back onto the roof’s surface, his spine stinging as it hit the concrete first. Peter felt like a toddler for letting his feelings get the best of him, but he didn’t care. Because it didn’t matter, because he had nobody to turn to anymore. No home, no family left to keep him grounded when he flew too high. _Nothing_. 

**Author's Note:**

> _( + bonus if you’re sad)_
> 
> The hero woke up the next day, the sun attacking his vision. A thin blanket was draped over his torso and a sticky note was attached to it. Peter’s back flared as he leaned forward, his head pounding steadily. He peeled the note off the fabric carefully.
> 
> _Hey baby boy. You looked cold, so I brought you a blanket. I won’t bother you again if we’re really through, but I want you to know I’m sorry. I know it’s not good enough, but it’s the truth._
> 
> _P.S. My Canadian hospitality only stretches so far, Petey, so stop avoiding me._
> 
> _XOXO, DP._


End file.
